


As Clumsy as You've Been

by Skitz_phenom



Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: Case Fic, First Kiss, Found Family, M/M, Stakeout, Truth Serum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 21:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17050610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skitz_phenom/pseuds/Skitz_phenom
Summary: Stuck without a place to sleep while the club that houses his apartment is remodeled, Jackson finds himself camping out on the March's couch, and then somehow, he migrates to Holland's bed. He blames Holly.  But, as they're working opposite shifts on a stake-out case, it's not like Holland is using it at the same time. And then he's got more things to worry about, like their seemingly simple case taking quite a left turn, not to mention Holland's penchant to make rash decisions...  They'll figure out the bed thing later.





	As Clumsy as You've Been

**Author's Note:**

  * For [duckgirlie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckgirlie/gifts).



> For duckgirlie! Happy Yuletide! I love this movie and was thrilled to get the chance to write in this fandom for you! Your thoughts and prompts are so in tune with mine, so I hope this is something you enjoy!!

 

“Mr. Healy!”

Pausing just outside a partially opened doorway - gun in one hand, flashlight in the other - Jackson glanced back over his shoulder at Holly’s harsh, anxious whisper. Several meters further in the gloom of a hallway lit only by one flickering, half-shattered fluorescent light panel, Holly’s ‘over here’ gesture was difficult to make out, but the tone and urgency were clear.

She was tucked close against a wall next to a set of double doors – one propped open and the other hanging cockeyed on only half its hinges – and when she saw she had Jackson’s attention, she pointed toward the darkness beyond and mouthed ‘my dad’.

Jackson took a long look in both directions, shining his light into the darkness of the long corridor for signs of movement, and then, seeing none, crept across the hall and along the wall until he reached her.

“I can hear him,” Holly explained in that same, low-voiced hiss. “In there.” She pointed again.

He held a finger up to his mouth and focused on the sounds filtering through the half-open doorway. Actual words were difficult to make out, but the tone and the voice were familiar. Jackson let out a sigh, and Holly must’ve recognized it for the relief it was because she grinned.

They’d found Holland.

“Wait here,” Jackson instructed.

To no one’s surprise, Holly just rolled her eyes.

Sighing again – because he knew from experience it was easier to acquiesce now, and keep an eye on her, rather than insist she stay behind and have her sneak after him – Jackson nodded reluctantly. “Okay, but stay behind me,” he whispered.

The room beyond was in equal disarray as the rest of the defunct factory had been, but at the far end another opening – this one partitioned by hanging slats of clear, if dingy and smoke-stained, plastic – the glow of a warm, yellow light shown through.

Keeping low, and motioning for Holly to do the same, Jackson switched off his flashlight and ducked into the room. Darting and scurrying to find cover behind empty boxes, several pieces of old industrial equipment and a few partially smashed crates made it feel like crossing a battlefield rather than an abandoned machine shop. Jackson’s heart thumped painfully against his chest by the time he neared the semi-translucent strips.

Though he couldn’t see anyone in the room beyond because the doorway opened into a short hall, there was no mistaking that it was Holland’s voice coming around the corner.

Holly scrambled – surprisingly stealthily – to the opposite side of the doorway and looked to Jackson for instruction.

He held up a finger to his mouth again, asking for quiet and a moment to think.  He needed both, although it was his own harsh breathing distracting him, rather than anything Holly was doing.

It may also have been because he could clearly hear March now, and he sounded…

Well, out of his gourd would be putting it kindly.

“… but, it’s not like… you know. I mean, remember that song. That one song? With the bells?” Holland started humming then, something melodic and random. “That one,” he went on when his brief and impromptu concert ended. “Remember? It was in that commercial where the guy and the girl eat cereal?”

“Oh my god,” a new voice cut over Holland’s drunken(?) rambling. “I thought this stuff was supposed to make him tell the truth, not turn him into a raving lunatic?”

Jesus, they’d drugged him?

A second new voice replied, “It’s not a truth serum. Christ, Tony, how many times does Joe have to tell you those don’t exist? Joe said it just gets people relaxed. Cooperative. Makes them want to talk.”

“Oh, well it’s working,” the man obviously called Tony shot back. “This guy won’t shut up!”

“Just ask him again,” the second voice insisted. There was something about second guy’s voice that struck Jackson as familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.

In the background, Holland had kept up a running dialogue that had segued from the unnamable song to his expansive thoughts on breakfast cereals.

“Hey,” Tony barked out, followed by fingers snapping. “Enough with the snap, crackle, pop. Focus here.”

Holland’s response was mumbled too low to hear; the sharp note of skin striking skin that came after _wasn’t_.

Jackson bristled, fighting back against the urge to go charging in there. He gave a quick, sideward glance to Holly and saw that while her mouth was pulled up in one corner in a scowl, she didn’t appear too concerned. It might’ve been odd to take comfort from the calm of a thirteen-year-old girl, but he felt himself relax, nonetheless.

“Hey, I said focus.” Another slap.

And maybe he tensed up just a little bit again.

“Owwww,” Holland’s drawn-out whine sounded petulant, but not particularly pained.

“Tell me what I want to know,” Tony instructed. “Tell me where your partner is. Is he here? Did he come with you?”

“Healy? Nooooooo,” again, Holland let the word drag out slow, and it reverberated strangely, like he was shaking his head as he said it. “Healy’s back at home, in my bed.”

What?

Jackson’s thought came at the same time as Tony’s reply.

“What? What the fuck are you talking about, man?”

Focus apparently drifting again, Holland continued on, “I didn’t tell him, and don’t you tell him, but I like it when he sleeps there. It’s nice getting into my bed when it’s warm and the blankets are all tangled and okay… you can’t tell him I said so, cuz he’ll like, break my arm. Again. Although, that was a spiral facture which I guess isn’t the same thing. But it smells nice.”

“A broken arm smells nice?” Original guy – not Tony – broke in to ask. He sounded as confused as Jackson felt.

“No, man. Healy. The bed smells nice when I get in it. It’s warm and it smells nice. I like the way it makes me sleep. I mean, it’d probably be even nicer if Healy stayed in it. Then the warm and the smell would stay all night.” He exhaled with a noisy, wet sputter. “But maybe we wouldn’t sleep? Right? Because if he stayed in it all night then maybe –”

“Woah! Woah. Stop it man, just stop.” Tony interrupted, and Jackson could practically hear him waving his hands violently in protest. “We don’t need to hear that shit.”

He was right, though. No one needed to hear that. Especially not some goon named Tony and his asshole friend who’d kidnapped and drugged Jackson’s partner.

Although, Jackson could stand to hear a little more.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Jackson looked guiltily over at Holly.

Whatever her thoughts on her father’s rambling, she didn’t seem too shocked, or even concerned. Instead, she pointed toward the room, held up two fingers and then gestured back and forth between them. Holly-code for ‘there are only two of them; we can take ‘em’. 

Bad enough he was going to have to admit to Holland that he’d heard his drug-induced babble, not to mention that he’d allowed Holly to sneak in the back of his car in his urgency to track him down, but he was sure as hell not letting Holland’s daughter go in there, guns blazing.

He shook his head.

Holly stuck out her tongue.

“Wait for my all clear,” he mouthed. He hadn’t quite formulated a plan – other than doing exactly as Holly’d suggested – but he knew he had to get moving before she did something rash.

“God, when the hell is Joe getting here? I can’t listen to this guy no more.”

Jackson turned his attention back to the conversation.

“Tony, quit bitching. Joe’ll get here when he gets here. He and Maryanne have to finish meeting with that art buyer.”

Another reason to get moving: they’d have company eventually.

He shifted his stance and started to slowly ease one of the plastic panels aside. Holly’s sudden, “Mr. Healy,” made him freeze. His heart leapt to his throat.

Had they been spotted? Was someone else coming?

“Your gun,” Holly explained, barely audible as she mimed a gun shape with her hand. That time her eye roll was well-deserved.

He’d tucked the Walther PPK into his shoulder holster during his duck-and-dash across the room and drew it somewhat sheepishly.

Holly arched a brow, but she was grinning. She turned the gun pantomime into a thumbs-up.

Jackson gave her a quick wink.

In his off hand, he adjusted his grip on the flashlight, thumb setting over the switch, and used the end of it to nudge aside one of the heavy divider strips. It wasn’t much of a plan, but maybe he could distract the kidnappers with a sudden, bright flash?

He slipped through the doorway, stilling the swinging panels behind him so they didn’t clap together and announce his presence, and then hurried to put his back against the wall. Around the corner, where the light brightened, he could hear Holland talking again, and Tony unsuccessfully trying to ask him questions. Luckily, there were no additional slaps or other threats of violence.

Jackson sucked in a breath, held it and then surged around the corner: flashlight and gun leading the way.

Here went nothing…

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  _Eight Days earlier:_

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“It’s gonna be how long?”

“Eh, about a week, week and a half. Maybe two.” Joe, the owner of the club that housed Jackson’s apartment and therefore technically his landlord, scratched the side of his head behind his ear and then shrugged. “That’s a rough estimate right now.”

Jackson frowned. “So, do I gotta be out the whole time?”

“Well,” Joe said, still scratching (it seemed to be less of a ‘thinking about things’ scratch and more of a ‘some kind of skin condition’ one), “I don’t think you _have_ to. More a case that you’ll _want_ to. It’s gonna be noisy as fuck in there while they’re doin’ the remodel. Not to mention the place is gonna smell, with all the paint and stuff, and the drywall dust. Just thought you might wanna find another place to stay while it’s going on. Up to you though.” He frowned and then added a somewhat reluctant, “I’ll knock the time off your rent. I mean. You know, the time it takes.”

Really, Jackson hadn’t been too concerned about that. It was the short notice (being told about two minutes earlier on his way back home with a bag of groceries, “Hey, Jack. Got a deal with my cousin on starting that remodeling I mentioned a few weeks back. His crew had a job fall through so they’re gonna start tomorrow.”) and the sudden need to find a place to stay for an unknown amount of time.

“So, I can get in and feed my fish while this is going on?” Another concern, because having to move and set-up the tank somewhere else would complicate things further.

“Oh, hey, yeah.” Joe nodded. “Ain’t like the place is gonna be off limits. Come and go whenever. Just watch out for the guys and don’t get hurt or nothin’.” He waggled a finger on the last.  Jackson might’ve found his consideration heartening, if he didn’t know that Joe’s real concern was liability.

“Okay,” Jackson told him, because what else could he say? He loved his weird little office-cum-apartment and even living above a club that hosted comedy gigs and the occasional jazz band and had a crowd that could get a little raucous, he was usually unbothered by the noise and the coming and going of patrons. The rent was cheap, and he had free entertainment anytime he wanted it.

“Okay,” he repeated. “Thanks, Joe. I’m gonna grab some stuff and clear out for a few days then.”

Joe knuckle-tapped him on the bicep with a grin and then headed back toward the bar. Jackson made his way to the back stairs and up to do just as he’d said. He fed the fish – a little extra, just-in-case – though he planned to come back daily to check on them. He only packed up enough clothes and essentials in a small suitcase to get him through a few days, plus a few extra items (the shotgun, his brass knuckles, his word-a-day calendar) he didn’t want to leave behind in case any of the construction guys got overly-curious.

When he left, it was with a destination already in mind. At least his first stop, anyway.

He knew that the March’s didn’t have a spare bedroom in their rental, but they had a couch and he figured Holland wouldn’t mind putting him up for a few days at least, while he made other arrangements. It was one nice thing about having a business partner; he could be relied upon in situations like this.

He’d made the drive dozens of times in the last eight months, and as had become habit, Jackson slowed as he passed by a half-constructed structure on a hill. Apparently work had stopped for the day, and he didn’t see Holly up there supervising, so she’d already gone home.  A couple more weeks, maybe a month and a half tops, and the March’s new house – well, their new house on their old property – would be rebuilt. 

He was looking forward to that, for Holly’s sake more than anyone. He knew she missed it with an ache, and that the regular late-night sojourns, book and flashlight in hand, to sit and read in the grass in what had been her bedroom hadn’t stopped until Holland had _finally_ agreed to start rebuilding.

Plus, he knew they’d have a guest room. Which didn’t help him now, but still; it was a nice thought.

He parked in his usual spot along the curb and when he knocked on the front door it was more perfunctory than anything. He didn’t wait for it to open, just let himself in when he heard Holly shout, “It’s Mr. Healy!” and her dad respond, “Well he can come in then.” Which was followed immediately by a scolding, “Jesus, Jack. How many times do I have to tell you that you don’t have to knock.”

Jackson carried in the small suitcase and set it against the wall next to the door as he closed it behind him. Before he could explain, or even begin to ask about being put up for a few days, Holland started talking.

“So how did how did you?”

“Know? Know what?”

“About the case. Did Holly call you?” Holland turned to his daughter. “Did you call him?”

While Holly shook her head, Jackson asked, “What case?”

“So, you don’t know?” Holland looked about as confused as Jackson felt.

“We have a case?”

“Yeah, that’s what I just said. I thought that’s why you were here?”

“Oh, no. That’s not why.”

Holland jerked his chin towards Holly. “Yeah, well, we’ve got a case. Our ‘secretary’ here took the call about twenty minutes ago.” There was a slight arch in his voice.

Holly, who was tucked in the corner of the couch with her latest novel – _Anna Karenina_ \- merely shrugged. “You weren’t answering fast enough. Besides, I make a good secretary. All the details are written down over there.” She gestured to kitchen, where a pen and pad of paper lay neatly on the counter. “So, what’s with the suitcase, Mr. Healy?”

It figured she’d notice before Holland.

“Oh yeah. I just found out from my landlord that they’re doing some remodeling in the club and the bar. I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I camped out on your couch a couple of days while I figure something else out?”

Holland, who’d wandered to the kitchen to retrieve the notepad, nodded like it was a question that hadn’t even needed to be asked. “Yeah, of course. Mi coucha es su coucha.” He laughed at his own joke.

Holly snorted and rolled her eyes, but there was a little bit of a smile playing around her mouth.

Jackson felt an odd rush of relief at the easy acceptance. He hadn’t really thought that March would turn him away, still it felt weirdly good to be the rule rather than the exception. Every now and then Holland or Holly would do or say something that seemed to automatically include him as part of their lives, like it was his default place. He still wasn’t quite used to it, and it always gave him a little thrill. He kind of hoped it never stopped feeling that way.

“Great, thanks.”

And that seemed to be all that needed to be said on that topic, because Holland flopped down on the couch next to Holly and pointed to something she’d jotted down. “What does that say?”

Holly set her book on the end table and grabbed the notebook with a sigh.

Taking that as a cue that they were getting to work, Jackson joined them, perching on the arm of the couch on Holly’s other side.

“It says, Mrs. Anzini. That’s the client. At this address. She wants to talk to you about some missing property.”

Reading over Holly’s shoulder, Jackson’s eyebrows rose. “Benedict Canyon Drive? That’s up in Beverly Glen. That’s a pretty nice part of town.”

Holland gave a low whistle. “Have to charge her the special rates,” he quipped.

Even Holly didn’t protest that one.

“So, what’s the plan? Head over to interview her?” Jackson asked.

“She said she was available after five-thirty tonight,” Holly explained, “So, I already told her you guys would be there by six.” She quieted for all of three seconds and then blurted, “What?” rather defensively, before either of them could protest the decision. “She assumed I was your secretary and it made sense that I know your schedules, so I arranged things for you.” The look she fixed on first Holland and then turned up to show Jackson was one daring them to argue.

Jackson knew better. He assumed Holland did too.

“Oh, one more thing. She said not to announce yourselves as detectives. You’re supposed to say you’re with the committee on beachfront preservation.”

“Right, committee for preserving beaches.” Holland winked.

She eyed them both critically a moment. “You may wanna dress nicer. She sounded rich.”

Jesus, she even _sounded_ rich. That might be worth a change of wardrobe.

The detective agency was doing well enough to make ends meet for all of them, and Jackson’ didn’t have a lot of expenses, but it never hurt to put aside a little extra now and then. He knew Holland was trying to build a nest egg for college money for Holly.

“It’s twenty after four right now,” Holland said after a glance at his watch. “Let’s get cleaned-up and then get on the road. We don’t want to fight traffic on the way there.”

Jackson borrowed a tie – he’d not thought to pack one – and shrugged into his only slightly wrinkled sport coat. It was as dressed-up as he could manage without access to his wardrobe. Holly eyed him critically while they waited for Holland to finish and gave him a thumbs up.

Weird how much her approval meant to him.

Holland had changed into a burnt orange suit that had been bought to replace the maroon one some months ago. He stepped out into the living and did a little twirl. “Good enough?”

Jackson nodded, though he kind of wanted to tell Holland that he liked the color on him. That’d be weird to say though, and he refrained.

“You’ll do.” Holly told him.

They headed out, Holland calling out instructions to Holly as they were ushered out the door: don’t let strangers in, call the police if anyone does come by, the extra gun is in the cookie jar…

“Bring back dinner,” was Holly’s only response to this familiar diatribe. “Thai maybe.”

“We’ll see. You just make sure to behave.”

Her, “Yeah, yeah. Don’t forget dinner,” was the last thing to eek out before she closed the door on them.

The exchange made Jackson grin. “She’ll be fine,” he told Holland as they got into the Benz.

Settling behind the wheel, Holland made a noncommittal noise and pulled out of the driveway. “I know,” he agreed once they were moving. “She’s just getting older. I worry.”

“She’s a tough kid.”

Holland didn’t respond, but he nodded and was smiling softly.

Jackson didn’t need to continue the conversation, but he found himself adding, “I ever had a kid, I’d want her to be like Holly.” He wasn’t quite sure why he said it. It was more the kind of thing he’d admit while drinking… not stone-cold sober and stuck in a car the next forty-five minutes with the guy he said it to.

He waited for things to get awkward.

But Holland just nodded again, mouth curling further at one corner in unmistakable pride.

Jackson recognized it because he felt it too.

Better not to say that out loud.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

In the last several months, the Nice Guys Detective Agency had closed out over a dozen smaller cases – missing persons, a lost dog, a few instances of insurance fraud – and had also been successful in two larger, newsworthy investigations. One, a high-profile celebrity inheritance dispute, had netted them a TV interview, and the other had been less public but had garnered the appreciation of Holland’s friend on the police force and his colleagues.

Jackson hoped this latest case would fall into the former category. An easy win would feel good right now. He knew that soon enough something crazy would fall into their lap; it always did.

Somehow, the further they got into the swanky Beverly Glen neighborhood, the more he felt his anxiety ratcheting up.

During the drive, Holland had occasionally remarked on the ‘strategic increase’ to their pricing structure, and the closer they got to their destination, the more frequent his comments, and the higher his prices. The homes and condos and mansions got larger and fancier and the landscapes got steeper the further into the hills they went.

They eventually ended up at a gated drive; the address of their destination. Holland pulled up and pressed the button on an intercom.

A few moments after the loud ‘buzz’ sounded, a tinny voice came through the speaker. “Anzini residence.”

“Uh, hi. Holland March and Jackson Healy, with the uh, committee on beach preservation, here to see Mrs. Angela Anzini.”

Jackson tried not to wince, hoping he’d gotten it close enough.

There was a moments silence and then another buzz sounded, and the gate slowly opened.

The ‘house’ they pulled up in front of was a Tuscan style mansion, with an arched front patio done in lovely red-orange stone and creamy marble. There was a Bentley parked in a matching stone carport. Under his breath, Holland mumbled a few more comments about their rates.

Jackson just tugged his sport coat straighter and made a mental note to thank Holly for her suggestion to dress up.

The doorbell sounded when Jackson pressed it, ringing out deep and melodic in a range of notes rather than just a single tone. The massive front door swung slowly open a few moments later, the man who answered blond, middle-aged and wearing a fancy butler’s uniform.

“Good evening.” The butler had a very put-on, faux-posh sounding accent. Like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to sound British upper-crust or east coast prep-school.

“Evening,” Jackson replied. “We’re here to see Mrs. Anzini.”

“Of course,” the butler said, nodding his head slightly. “If you’ll follow me.” He stepped back, opened the door further and gestured them inside. He continued, expecting them to trail after, and didn’t even look back to see if they followed.

Beside him, Jackson heard Holland’s low whistle as they were led through an elegant, spacious foyer with rose marble floors and dark-stained woods, and then through a set of double-doors into a large library or office of sorts. Central to the room was a massive desk, the entire top some giant slab of wood. Two-story bookshelves surrounded the room, the kind that needed a rolling ladder, and the dark-stained woods continued throughout. Where walls were visible, they were a warm, pale yellow and the entire room was accented with rust-colored fabric accents on heavy, upholstered chairs. Artwork, tasteful floral arrangements and elegant sculpture completed the room.

Weirdly, Holland looked like just another part of the décor, his suit matching unusually well with the overall aesthetics of the room.

“Mrs. Anzini will be with you momentarily.”

Distracted by the odd thought, Jackson nodded absently at the valet as he backed out of the room, closing the doors after him.

“I like it,” Holland said once they were alone, after doing a full three-sixty to survey the room. “Not as gaudy as I expected.”

“Yeah,” Jackson had to agree. “Nothing’s gilded.”

“Right! Exactly. It’s kinda tasteful.”

For as unostentatious as the room, its owner was quite the opposite. The woman that entered from a single door on the opposite side of the room was as glittery and bejeweled as the room wasn’t. With the amount of heavy jewelry that draped her neck and wrists, the thick make-up she wore and her steel-silver hair, Jackson would’ve put her age anywhere between sixty and ninety. Gowned in a black, sequined pantsuit with a sheer flowing overcoat trimmed in feathers, Mrs. Anzini was every bit the cliché rich widow that Jackson had been expecting. And because he’d been expecting it, she came as somewhat of a surprise.

He was back to feeling severely underdressed.

“Gentleman,” she said, sweeping into the room and letting the door slam shut behind her.

Holland stepped forward. He took up Mrs. Anzini’s hand in a surprisingly smooth gesture and brought it to his lips, lightly bussing the line of her knuckles. “Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Anzini.”

She tittered as she drew her hand away. “Mr. March.”

That she recognized him by name, told Jackson she’d seen them on television. Which made sense. Their ad didn’t seem to be something she’d ever come across by accident.

“Mr. Healy,” she added, turning to address him.

He didn’t replicate Holland’s hand-kiss, but he did offer her a polite handshake. She squeezed his fingers rather tightly a moment, smiling warmly.

“Mrs. Anzini.”

“Please, call me Angela.” She waved them to a sitting area that ringed a small coffee table, settling elegantly in one of the plush, upholstered chairs. Jackson joined Holland in a matching settee, sitting close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. “Thank you so much for coming on such little notice.”

“It was no trouble.” Holland told her. “So, what seems to be the trouble, Mrs –” he broke off when she tsked at him. “I mean, Angela. I understand you’ve suspected someone is stealing from you? Things are going missing?”

“Yes, that’s correct,” she confirmed, laying a ring-bedecked hand over her ample bosom. “It’s quite dreadful. But it’s not here, at the house, you see. I’ve been moving some of my husband’s old things into storage while I’m remodeling the east wing of rooms. Just recently I sent my designer to the storage unit to get a certain painting to put up over the fireplace in the blue bedroom. He wasn’t able to find it, and when he catalogued the rest, he discovered several other things missing from the inventory list as well.”

“Do you have that list we can review?” Holland asked.

Jackson followed-up with, “Is there any pattern to the things being stolen?”

“Yes, I have the list I can share.” Her nod in response to Holland turned into a frown at Jackson’s. “I’m not aware of any pattern. It’s been the painting, and a Tiffany sconce, two pieces of jewelry and a vase. The only thing they have in common is their value is rather high. But there are other pieces of value in there as well.

“It’s so disheartening. I pay for a secure unit, of course. One with a twenty-four hour guard. And there are only a limited number of people from the household with access. That’s why I wanted you to come over tonight,” she added in a lowered voice. “I don’t want my staff to know why you’re here and except for Geoffrey, my Valet, they’re all off for the evening.”

She darted a look around the room as if there might be someone skulking in a corner or perhaps crouching beneath a window or with an ear pressed to the door. Her fingers knotted in her lap, wringing absently and she stared down at them. “Much as a I dread the thought, I’m worried it might be one of them.”

“How many people on your staff have access?” Jackson queried.

“Four.” She gave them a brief rundown on each; a cook, a housekeeper, a groundskeeper and Geoffrey the valet. “I feel terrible even suggesting such a thing about any of them. They’ve all been with me since before Franz died, but…” she trailed off.

“Franz was your husband?”

Her gaze shifted from the twining of her fingers to a spot across the room. It wasn’t an absent stare, but a very focused one. “Yes,” she finally answered with a brief nod. “Yes, my Franz passed away eighteen months ago. In this very room actually.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Jackson said. “Do you mind if we ask what happened?” It was probably unrelated to the current case. Probably.

“Heart failure,” she replied, shaking her head like she still didn’t believe it. “It came as quite a terrible shock. Franz was much younger than me, you see. And had always been in excellent health.”

With Mrs. Anzini’s focus still on a stretch of oriental rug in front of one of the bookcases, Jackson risked a quick glance at Holland, wondering if he was thinking the same thing about the professed age gap: gold-digger. The speculatively raised brow he got in return seemed to be an answer.

“How long were you married?” Holland asked.

“Oh, not nearly long enough,” she replied sadly. “We were a week shy of celebrating our two-year anniversary.”

Holland made a sympathetic noise. “That’s rough.” He seemed genuine and Jackson wondered if he was thinking of his deceased wife.

“It was awful,” Mrs. Anzini agreed. “Franz was a brilliant chemist, and such a remarkable man. I think many people thought he romanced me only for the chance at my fortune.” – Jackson refrained from exchanging another speaking look with Holland. – “But many of them didn’t know that Franz hadn’t been without his own resources.”

She went quiet a moment. “I was the one who found him, you know. His body, I mean. Over there,” she pointed. “When I first found him, I thought to myself, ‘what an odd place to fall asleep’. It was a silly thought, of course, but I just couldn’t make sense of how someone so young and vibrant and full of life could just collapse.

“I rushed over to him and checked his pulse. His skin was still warm. If I’d only been a few minutes earlier, I might’ve…” she trailed off.

Again, Holland was ready with the right words. “You can’t blame yourself, Angela. It wasn’t your fault and you couldn’t have known.”

“Yes, I… suppose,” she agreed reluctantly. “The paramedics said as much. They arrived so fast. It felt like mere moments after I screamed for Geoffrey to ring them, they were there, trying to revive my Franz.”

“He’s the valet, right?” Jackson asked. 

“Yes. He’d worked for Franz prior to the two of use getting married. He’s such a dear. I don’t know what I’d have done without him. He took care of everything after Franz died. He even dealt with the Franz’s employers, Toxikon chemicals.”

Something in the bitter way she said the name caught Jackson’s interest. Before he could ask, Mrs. Anzini blurted, “You should look into them.”

Holland frowned. “The chemical company?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Anzini nodded hard enough to send her perfectly coifed hair wobbling.

Jackson asked the obvious next question. “You think this chemical company was responsible for your husband’s death and is now responsible for the thefts of your property?”

“Yes,” she affirmed. “I’m almost sure of it. You see, after the paramedics wheeled Franz’ body out of here, the ambulance drove away, but never made it to the hospital. There was a wreck. I was told the driver lost control on a corner because of some fresh rain, and they went over the guardrail and the ambulance rolled multiple times. Eventually, there was a small explosion. An oxygen tank was the explanation. But I have my doubts.”

“You think Toxikon Chem engineered that?” Her thought process didn’t seem all that far-fetched.

She nodded again. “Yes, I do.”

“But why would they want to do that?” Holland asked.

Again, Mrs. Anzini was ready with an answer. “Because they needed to get rid of the evidence, of course.”

“Which evidence?”

“The evidence that they’d actually poisoned my Franz,” she explained, starting to seem like her patience was wearing thin.

“Right,” Holland nodded, hurrying to add, “Makes sense if there was no body to examine.”

Mollified, Mrs. Anzini sat back in her chair and sighed. “I’ve no proof of this, of course. Franz used to tell me the company men were upset with him over some patent issues, but he later assured me it had all been worked out.”

Proceeding gingerly, Jackson asked, “Do you have any kind of information that might suggest Toxikon Chemical could be involved in the robbery? Has anyone mentioned seeing any of their company vehicles around the storage area?”

“No. They’ve only ever reported my cars on site. And, as I said, every person on my staff _does_ have access. They’ve been assisting with the redecorating and had carte blanche permission to use the storage units for their own needs as well.”

He and Holland both asked a few more questions of Mrs. Anzini, getting more information on each of the staff members – schedules, history and things like that – and then held a hushed discussion about their decision to take the case.

Obviously, they knew they were going to take it, but sometimes haggling in front of the potential client garnered a much more favorable outcome when it came to settling the tab.

“So, you’ll take the case?” Mrs. Ansinzi asked a few minutes later.

“Well, our schedule is rather busy,” Holland told her with feigned apprehension. “And we’ll need to ensure we get full surveillance coverage of the storage unit, likely for several days.”

Mrs. Anzini seemed to fret. “Oh, well, I’d certainly be willing to pay more to ensure your full services throughout the duration.”

Holland made a considering noise. “Hmm, I think that’s something we can arrange. We’ll just confirm it with our secretary when we get back to the office.”

Personally, Jackson thought that his performance was a little over-the-top, but Mrs. Anzini looked nothing but grateful.

Grateful enough to hand over a substantial check to ‘secure their services and cover initial expenses’. Holland looked a little too gleeful as he took it from her, but managed to school his face into something more professional after only a few moments.

They let themselves out – no other glimpses of Geoffrey the valet – and Holland actually refrained from letting out a loud ‘whoop’ of joy until they’d put the Anzini residence at least a half mile behind them.

Jackson shook his head fondly.

He just hoped this case didn’t end up costing them more than they’d earn.

 

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Mr. Healy?”

Jackson shifted on the sofa, lifted his head from a drool-damp throw pillow, and muttered something that might have been a reply (but was probably little more than an unintelligible grunt).

Holly didn’t answer, but he could hear her moving around the kitchen. From his experience over the last three days temporary stay at the March’s residence, he assumed she was putting together some kind of after school snack and would wake him up – to offer him a share – when she was done. Holly was thoughtful like that.

He rolled over to his back - carefully, as he’d learned how narrow the sofa was the hard way and had the bruised tailbone to prove it – listening to her putter. The smell of something toasting and the sound of a knife clinking against a jar promised something warm and melty.

When he finally sat up, groaning low at the pain zinging through his spine, Holly was there with a plate.

“Honey and banana toast?”

“Heck yeah,” he said, taking the proffered plate. She had a mug as well, that she handed over once he set the plate on his knee.

“Coffee?”

She grinned wide. “Sort of.”

Intrigued, Jackson took a careful sip. It was definitely coffee, but there was a creamy sweetness to it. “Is that cocoa?” He took another taste.

Holly nodded. “Yeah. It’s just the instant packets, but it tastes pretty good.”

“Yeah, it does. Thanks, kid.”

She joined him on the couch and they finished their snack while Jackson listened as Holly chattered about her day at school, and the results on her chemistry test, and the latest foibles of several classmates he was still trying to sort out in his head. He liked afternoons like this. It felt… domestic. Like he belonged here.

“You know,” Holly said as she let Jackson gather up their empty plates and mugs and carry them to the sink. “You should probably talk to my dad about sleeping in his bed.”

A ceramic mug slipped from Jackson’s hand and he bobbled it a few seconds and then managed to catch it before it could smash into the steel sink. “Huh?” he replied rather inanely after carefully setting the rest of the dishes down.

“For your back. I mean, this couch is nice enough, but sleeping on it day after day can’t be too comfortable.” She added sheepishly, “Plus I can hear you moaning when you get up.”

The sympathy of a thirteen-year-old girl shouldn’t have made him feel so good, but it did. “Eh, I’m okay.”

“Yeah, but you and Dad are working opposite shifts on this stakeout. His bed is empty. You should use it.” She gestured vaguely. “You’ll feel better.”

“And?” He pushed, sensing there was some other motive at play.

Holly’s cheeks pinked. “And, I wanted to have Jessica over tomorrow and…” She let the thought trail off.

Yeah, kinda tough to hang out with your friends with an old guy snoring on the couch. “Maybe I should get a hotel,” he suggested.

“No!” Holly blurted out. “I mean, why would you? It’s good that you’re staying here. My dad likes it. That I’m not alone when he’s gone.” Her need for independence clearly warred with her eagerness to have him around. “Not that I need a babysitter or anything. It just makes him feel better.”

It made Jackson feel better too, if he was honest. Holly’d been through too much for a girl her age already. It wasn’t like he could say no to that, and he really didn’t want to. “Sure, yeah. I’ll ask your dad about it.” He waved vaguely in the direction of the bedrooms. “About the bed, thing.”

“Thanks, Mr. Healy.”

He returned to the couch.

Usually after her after school snack, Holly diligently finished up her homework. She had her backpack out and open, but the notepad in her lap was the one she used for case-related information.

“What’s up?” he asked.

Holly tilted the pad so he could see the notes jotted down in her neat cursive script. “I stopped at the library on the way home. I found some newspaper articles on microfiche about Mr. Anzini’s death and the ambulance crash.”

“Oh yeah?” Sometimes her diligence in working their cases put Jackson and her dad to shame.

“Yeah. It does seem kinda fishy. I mean, the hills _are_ steep, and the road does have some sharp turns, so an accident is possible, I guess. There’d been a light rain too.” She shrugged. “But the way the ambulance burned up seemed weird. Like, there were pictures in the articles, and stuff.” She caught herself. “I mean, there were pictures. There was almost nothing left of it. The police said it was probably an oxygen tank exploding that caused that much damage.”

He caught on to her meaning right away. “Although a chemical company could probably produce something that would burn hot enough to make sure they’d couldn’t test the body for poison.”

“Exactly.”

It was something to think about. Jackson had first speculated that this would be an open and shut case: someone on the staff was probably responsible for the thefts. But Holland kept pushing the chemical company angle.

Jackson had spent the previous morning running down as much information as he could on Toxikon Chem. Despite their villainous sounding name, they seemed on the up and up. Their central business platform involved creating solutions for industrial cleaning needs. They had a few niche divisions however, and he’d been unable to get much information on them.

He’d also hit a wall when he tried contacting them for information on Franz Anzini.  

Despite chasing both angles, he and Holland had still agreed that the stakeout was the right path to follow – for now.

Jackson glanced at the clock. It was half-past five. He was due to relieve Holland at midnight and could use a few more hours sleep.

“Hey, Mr. Healy. Do you know anything about polynomials?”

A nap could wait.

Instead, he settled back to read through Holly’s meticulous notes, and offer useless advice on her homework.

It was as pleasant a way to spend the day as any.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Movement across the street caught Jackson’s eye, and he angled his head to peer past the lush, but sprawling greenery in the center divider of the boulevard. It blocked out a good portion of his line of sight to the parking lot of A to Z Secure Storage and Rentals.

He sighed, frowning when he realized it was just the security office taking another round of the parking lot. From what Jackson had learned in interviewing the owners of the facility two days earlier, security was supposed to take their rounds on foot.  Instead, this guy was cruising around in his Dodge Coronet, taking a lazy tour between the rows and rows of identical storage units.

Jackson settled back into his seat again, adjusting the angle of his head so he had a better view of unit 17B, rented by one Angela Anzini.

Jackson hadn’t _really_ thought that he’d catch the culprits in the act any later tonight, especially as it was nearing dawn, but every now and then he got his hopes up.

He and Holland had speculated that their best opportunity to catch the thieves in the act on the stakeout would either be in the dead of night, or brazenly during the day when the comings and goings of random vehicles would go unremarked.

It was probably just a sign of how dull this case had been so far, that every single flash of movement or light was enough to get his heart revving.

By the light of his small flashlight he checked his watch. The sun would be up in about eight minutes (he’d checked the schedule in the paper last night) and Holland would be there to relieve him at eight and he could finally get some rest.

As it was, he probably hadn’t done the greatest job keeping an eye out, because he could feel the sleep just building in the corners of his eyes, and that ‘napped in the afternoon’ dryness on his tongue. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all; it was pretty unprofessional for a detective to drift off on a stakeout. But he hadn’t been sleeping well, and he could only try to counter that with strong coffee for so long.

Thinking of coffee, he checked his thermos. There was a splash left in the bottom and despite the heat retention properties of the cannister, the bitter liquid had gone quite tepid. Although, considering it had been brewed ten hours ago, Jackson supposed that wasn’t being fair to the thermos.

He forced down the final few mouthfuls, grimacing at the cool, oily taste. At least it might help to wake him up a bit for this last leg of his shift.

The empty thermos was set aside, swapped for a little notebook and the flashlight again. It was almost light enough to see without it, but he wanted to make at least a little effort towards legibility. He noted down the time of the security sweep of the rental lot – actually about twenty minutes early today – and that could be something or could be nothing.

That last distraction set aside, Jackson could only hope that nothing too thrilling or important happened in the next hour and a half before Holland showed to replace him. Not that he was planning on deliberately falling asleep, but he could feel himself drifting. His attention and gaze both wandered.

As the sun slowly peeked over the city skyline, casting a hazy pinkish, gold glow on the surrounding buildings and landscape, Jackson recognized that he was seeing this through half-closed lids.

“Jesus, Jack,” he muttered, “you’ve gotta get it together.” He slapped himself across the face a few times, albeit not that hard.

The sharp sting of palm on cheek gave him a few brief moments of alertness.

It wasn’t enough…

There was a pillow beneath his cheek, and a warmth pressed along the whole left side of him. Jackson curled into it.

“You’re hogging the blankets.”

Holland’s voice, so low and close to his ear, made Jackson shiver. “You should get closer then,” he responded, like that made any kind of sense as they were already pressed together bodily from shoulder to calf.

“I can do that,” Holland replied, his moustache tickling Jackson’s ear.

He giggled.

And then somehow, he _was_ closer. “Yeah, that’s better,” Jackson said, snuggling into a warm Holland-shaped blanket.

He was immersed in Holland, subsumed and cocooned by him. He’d never felt so safe or happy.

“Could be better,” Holland’s voice said, and this time it was like the words just crawled into his ear.

“How?” Jack wondered.

“Like this,” Holland replied, and then amorphous shape that was Holland undulated and pressed and squeezed in a few very nice locations.

Jackson squirmed and gasped softly, in abject pleasure. “Okay, yeah, that’s better,” he had to agree.

It got warmer, and the pressure increased, and he rocked into it, helpless to do anything but give into the sensation of Holland’s hands and Holland’s fingers and Holland’s entire body touching him everywhere.

“Yeah,” he said again, feeling something start to crescendo. “Oh, yeah…”

*HONK*

He startled awake with a gasp and a low shout and cast about helplessly for a few moments while the world came into focus around him. The rearview mirror showed a familiar Mercedes pulling to a stop behind him, and he realized that the sharp sound that pulled him from sleep had been Holland honking the horn.

Damn, that was embarrassing.

Getting caught sleeping on a stakeout had to be the most unprofessional move for a detective. The fact that it was his partner who caught him, made Jackson feel doubly worse.

The fact that he’d been dreaming about said partner… well, he wasn’t even going to acknowledge how deep that shame ran.

He could see Holland getting out of the car, and he shook his head and took a few deep breaths and hoped like hell Holland wouldn’t be able to like, sense anything was weird.

Knuckles tapped against his window, so he rolled it down.

“Hey, morning, March,” he managed to grunt out in a voice that gave gravel a run for its money.

“Morning. Any luck?”

Jackson shook his head. “No. Three visits from our good buddy Jerry the security guard, as per usual. One stray cat. That was the highlight of my night. How ‘bout you?” he asked, trying to keep things casual.

It was weird having Holland this close. Even with a car door separating them, it was like he could sense Holland’s warmth through the metal.

And Christ, he needed to keep it together.

“Nothin’ on my end.” Holland bent his head to look into the window. “Jesus, Jack. You look like shit.”

He tried to shrug it off. “Eh, haven’t been sleeping that well.” He’d promised Holly that he’d ask her dad about using his bed during daytime hours, but now that he was presented with the opportunity, Jackson couldn’t even begin to find the words. “Uh, no offense to your couch.”

Despite the humor, Holland looked kind of pinched around the eyes and mouth. “Oh hey, yeah,” he said, looking anywhere but at Jackson’s face. “Holly wanted me to tell you. You should take my bed. I mean, during the day while I’m out here.” He gave an exaggerated eye roll. “Don’t take it personal, that she wants you out of her hair. I mean, you know teenagers. Hard to eat cookies and gossip about boys with a grown-up in the room.”

Obviously neither of them could be mature about this, but Jackson knew a lifeline when he was thrown one. “Yeah, she said somethin’ about having Jessica over? That okay with you?”

“The bed?” Holland’s voice squeaked like a rusty hinge.

Jackson felt his neck flush. “Uh, well sure. I mean, that too. But, I meant, Holly having a friend over.”

“Oh! Right. Yeah. Yeah, it’s all good.” He nodded a bit over-eagerly.

“Terrific,” Jackson replied inanely.

An awkward silence fell.

Holland broke it by slapping a hand on the window frame. “Well, I’d better let you get your beauty rest.”

“Right, yeah.”

Why the hell did it feel like it would be the most natural thing for Jackson to lean over and press a kiss to Holland’s cheek in parting?

Quashing that urge rather fiercely, Jackson repeated, “Right. Yeah. I’d better get going.”

And fortunately, Holland took that as his cue to back his head out of the car. “See ya later, man.”

“Yeah,” Jackson said, starting the engine. “Have a good one, March.”

“You too, Jack.”

He didn’t know if it was possible to pull a car out awkwardly, but if it was, then Jackson certainly managed it.

Still, he couldn’t help but give one last glance in the rearview as he started to drive away. Holland was still standing where he’d been, and he had one hand lifted in a wave.

Jackson stuck his arm out the window and waved back.

The rest of the drive back to the March’s he spent mentally kicking himself for being such an asshole.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The muffled but harsh sound of a door slamming shut pulled Jackson from sleep.

He listened for a minute, heard the familiar sounds of Holly’s backpack hitting the floor and her feet crossing to the kitchen. He wondered about the door slam, feeling a low rush of anxiety that something had happened to upset her.

Then he remembered getting out of the car after he’d swapped stake-out duty with Holland, and how the early fall winds had nearly yanked the front door off its hinges.

Jackson listened for a few more minutes, finding comfort in the sounds he’d grown used to over the past several days.

Holly would probably start working on a snack soon enough, and he knew he had time to catch a few more minutes of sleep.

He shifted on the bed, rolling deeper into the thick duvet and burying his head in the heavy feather pillows.

Holland’s bed was fantastic. It was his fourth day sleeping there, and Jackson didn’t _ever_ want to stop. Which he wholly blamed on the fabulous bedding. Nothing to do with the lingering scent of Holland’s cologne or being able to rest his cheek in the very divot that Holland’s own head had left in the pillow.

It was _absolutely_ the bedding.

Thick, heavy down comforter, smooth as butter sheets and the kind of pillows that just melted around you but managed to be firm at the same time. According to Holly, Holland had ‘borrowed’ the linens and pillows from a hotel where he’d worked a case, and Jackson had to admit they were fantastic.

He’d gotten into a rhythm the last few days as well.

His nights were spent parked across from the storage facility, ostensibly doing surveillance, and then in the mornings after Holland relieved him, Jackson would try to spend a couple of hours doing some legwork. He also stopped at his apartment to feed the fish and check on the remodel progress (the ‘two week’ estimate was looking less and less likely). He’d interviewed employees at the storage company, and the chemical manufacturer and even the ambulance company that had followed-up the rescue call for Mrs. Anzini’s husband.

Holly kept to her pattern of waking him up with her afternoon snack, and they’d work on her homework and talk about the case. He napped a few more hours after that, and sometimes woke up to Holly cooking a meal, or to her tapping at the door with a handful of take-out menus. 

Neither he nor Holland nor Holly had pulled in any thing new in the last couple of days.

Still, despite getting nowhere on the case, Jackson couldn’t recall a time in his life where he’d been more content.

He was half-dozing, just basking in that feeling of contentment, when the phone rang.

Through the door he heard Holly answer, which was followed only a few moments later by the sound of her feet padding down the hall. She knocked, a quick one-two tap, and then opened the bedroom door.

“Mr. Healy.”

“Hey, Holly.

“Sorry to wake you up, but it’s my dad.” There was an eager note in her voice.

“Gotcha. Comin’ right out. Tell him I’ll just be a minute.”

Holly nodded, “Got it.” She darted back down the hall, presumably to do just that.

Any lingering sleepiness had been washed aside by a low tide of excitement. If Holland was calling in the middle of the afternoon, that could only mean one thing: he’d spotted something.

Jackson took long enough to pull on his T-shirt and strode out into the living room still wearing his sleep pants. Holly was sitting on the couch, phone cord stretched out from the kitchen, and dutifully taking down notes.

She looked up when she heard him and waved him over, holding to phone out. “Dad wants to talk to you. He says he’s solved it!”

Eagerly taking up the receiver, Jackson asked, “You solved it?” as soon as he brought the phone to his face.

“Ohhh, yes.” Holland replied, and there was a manic delight in his voice. “You’ll never guess who it was!”

Jackson thought a minute on their suspect list and who they’d already winnowed down. “Conchita? The housekeeper?”

“And?”

“And?” Jackson echoed. “There’s more than one? It’s her and someone else?”

“Oh!” Holly piped up. “It’s gotta be the butler. It’s always the butler.”

Her voice carried enough that Holland heard it. “Bingo!”

He gave Holly a thumbs-up.

“I knew it!” she crowed.

“And,” Holland continued, sounding ridiculously pleased with himself.

“What?”

“And,” Holland prompted again.

“Jesus, there’s three of ‘em?” He tossed a mental coin between the remaining employees of Mrs. Anzini. He landed on, “Carlos?” the groundskeeper.

“And, that’s bingo again.”

Damn… all three of them. “What about the cook? Merda?” Could _all_ of them have been in on it?

“Didn’t see her. Don’t think she’s in on it. These three seemed to be planning something. They had a big rental truck and they loaded a bunch of stuff onto it. I think this is their final heist.”

“You get the plates on the truck?”

“Yeah,” Holland crowed. “Got the make, model and plate numbers. These three ain’t exactly subtle. I’m guessing they know the old lady was starting to suss them out. Decided on one big, final score.”

“Yeah. Butler could’ve recognized us,” Jackson agreed. “Or maybe Mrs. Anzini let something slip.” That was immaterial at this point. “So, what’s next?” he asked.

“Next, I’m gonna stop at Thai to Remember,” – Holly’s favorite restaurant – “and get takeout to celebrate. Then I’m coming home and over some pork Pad Prik Khing, shrimp Pad Laad Na and spring rolls, we’re going to call Mrs. Anzini and tell her to get the cops and her lawyer on the phone.”

Holly must’ve heard some of that because she added, “Drunken noodles too!”

Jackson laughed. “You hear that?”

“Oh yeah. I won’t forget the drunken noodles.”

He ended the call with saying he’d be home in about an hour and a half.

As he handed the receiver back to Holly, Jackson felt a sudden drop in the pit of his stomach despite his elation over the case having been solved.

Holland was coming home. They’d be back to the normal twenty-four seven routine. Which meant…

Well it meant that his days snoozing blissfully in Holland’s bed were at an end.

He looked up as Holly hung up the phone. “Case closed,” she said with a grin, swiping her hands together in a ‘done’ gesture.

“Yeah.” He forced his grin to stay wide and even. “About time too. I’m getting tired of all-night stakeouts.” Jackson mimed an exaggerated stretch and yawn. “Speaking of, kiddo. I think I’m gonna catch a few more Z’s before your dad gets home.”

Holly just nodded. “Sounds good. I was gonna make some sandwiches, but since Dad’s bringing home Thai, I think I’ll just wait.”

“Wake me up when he gets here.”

He headed back to Holland’s room, closing the door behind him. He shrugged out of his t-shirt and then practically crawled into the bed and wrapped himself tight in the duvet.

It was probably – no, _definitely_ – quite pathetic for a grown ass man to derive so much comfort from something as simple as bedding – and another adult man’s bedding to boot – but Jackson ignored that little voice chiding him for being so ridiculous (and taunting him that the comfort and security he felt had little to do with bedding and much more to do with who that bedding belonged to), and let himself drift back to sleep.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Mr. Healy?”

Jackson woke slowly, Holly’s voice and a soft tapping on the door pulling him from dreams he suspected he’d rather not remember. Blinking his eyes open, he found himself suddenly alert, anxious.

“Yeah, Holly?”

She opened the door and peeked her head in. The look on her face, combined with the hot, gummy feel of his eyes and the too heavy taste on his tongue told him it’d been a lot longer than an hour.

“Uhm, I’m starting to get worried about my dad.”

He could suddenly place the thing that had first twigged his senses. It was dark in the room. Holland had called at almost quarter-after-four, but it was at least seven, or possibly later.

“What time is it?”

“Seven twenty-two.”

“Shit.” He scrambled to sit up. “He didn’t call back?” He asked, hoping that maybe he’d just slept through a phone call.

She shook her head.

“Fuck.” He winced. “Sorry.”

“No, I’d say it’s a good time for swearing.”

“Yeah,” Jackson agreed. “Gimme a minute to get dressed and we’ll…” he cast about for something reassuring to say. “We’ll figure something out.”

Holly nodded, and at least the apprehension that had narrowed her eyes and put heavy lines into her brow had smoothed out somewhat. She shut the door behind her, and Jackson hurried out of bed. He dressed and gave his teeth a quick brush – hating that scummy feeling left behind after too much sleep – and then rejoined Holly in the living room.

“Okay,” he began, decisively. “We know where your dad was, and where he was going. I’ll get in the car and drive over there, see if I can find him.” It was a lame explanation, but he was desperate. “Maybe his car just broke down or something?”

An old pro at calling out bullshit, Holly rolled her eyes. “Okay, first of all, you’re just saying that to make me feel better. And second of all, I’m going with you.”

“Holly, you know –” that was as far as Jackson got before she interrupted.

“Don’t argue. You know I’ll find a way to go with you. Or,” she threatened, “I’ll go on my own.”

She would, too.

“Fine,” he relented. “But you listen to every word that I –”

This time it was the phone that cut him off.

They both dashed for it, but he scrambled to a stop – socked feet sliding on the kitchen floor – to let her answer.

“Dad?”

“Is it him?”

He knew the answer immediately from the way her whole body seemed to suddenly release its tension. Well, that and the way she yelled, “Where the hell are you?”

She listened for a minute, made a face and then finally blew out a breath through pursed lips that unsettled her bangs. “Fine,” she huffed. Then she handed the phone over to Jackson.

He hesitated for only a second. “March, where the hell are you?”

“Okay, listen, Healy. You’re not gonna believe this. So, I’m at the Thai place, just waiting to pick up my order. When who the hell should pull in? No shit, it’s the moving truck with Geoffrey and the other two.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.” It wasn’t a question. “They follow you or something?”

Holland huffed out a laugh. “No! That’s the best part. They went there for dinner! Some criminals. Stopping mid-heist to grab some Thai.”

Jackson thought about it for a minute. “Maybe they didn’t get twigged to our investigation?” he pondered. “Maybe this was their plan all along?”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Holland agreed.

“So, what do we do now?”

There was a pause. A very telling pause.

“March? What did you do?”

“Uh, I may have snuck into the back of the moving truck.”

“You what!?”

“I’m telling you, Jack. There’s something else going on here. I heard them talking on the way in. They said something about meeting with some guy. Like he was expecting all of them. There’s someone else in on this. We need to find that someone.”

Jackson closed his eyes tight for a count of ten. “Jesus. Okay. Where are you now?”

“Uh, we’re at a gas station in Bakersfield.” His voice suddenly went distant. “Shit, I gotta go, Healy. Looks like they’re getting ready to leave. I gotta get back on that truck.”

“March!” Jackson tried to protest.

“No, listen. I also overheard that they’re heading up to Petaluma to meet this unknown. So, I’m gonna stick around. Drive up there. Get a room at the Petaluma Hotel. I’ll meet you there.” He sounded rushed now, spitting out his last few instructions. “Tell Holly to stay with Jessica.”

“March,” he said again, but it was to a dial-tone.

He hung the phone up and turned to face Holly’s accusing glare. “I am not staying at Jessica’s,” she insisted before he could get a word out. “And if you take me there, I’m getting a cab and following you.”

Jackson scrubbed a hand over his face. “Christ, kid.” He dragged his palm down, dragging his skin roughly. “Fine,” he finally allowed with a heavy sigh. At least if she was with him, he could keep an eye on her. The thought of her running off on her own… Jesus, it didn’t bear thinking about.

“Okay fine,” he said again. “Go pack a bag. We’ve got a seven or so hour drive. I imagine when we meet up with your Dad, we won’t wanna drive back tonight.”

She seemed a little surprised at how easily he acquiesced, but she nodded and hurried off to her room. Jackson’s bag was still mostly packed. He rearranged a few things, and then grabbed Holland a change of clothes and a few toiletries as well.

Ten minutes later the pair were in his Toranado, and Jackson was pulling away from the curb.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

They checked into the Petaluma Hotel seven and a half hours later. The drive had been tense and quiet and when he and Holly weren’t sitting there in anxious, sullen silence, she flipped restlessly through radio stations while he tried over and over to get her to try and get some rest. She ignored him, and he tried not to snap at the repetitive click, click, click as she went from station to station. 

Eventually, she’d dozed off, and Jackson had spent the remaining two hours of the drive wishing she was still awake and he could concentrate on being annoyed at her restlessness. Instead, he just worried.

Jackson lied to the concierge and said Holly was his daughter, and then asked if Holly’s ‘uncle’ Holland had checked in yet.

No such luck.

Holly immediately crawled into the second bed and was out within only minutes. He didn’t blame her. It was well after three am.  He knew he should try and get some sleep as well, since there was nothing he could do until they heard from Holland. Petaluma wasn’t Los Angeles in terms of size, but there was still no tracking March down without some kind of guidance.

Unfortunately, as he’d essentially been working third shift for the past week, Jackson was wide awake.

He wanted to go out and start searching the city, despite the futility of the gesture. At least it would’ve felt like he was doing something. But he couldn’t leave Holly alone.

An hour ticked by.

Jackson paced and then tried to get comfortable in a wingback chair with an ottoman.

The second hour passed as he flipped through all the tourist material that the hotel had conveniently supplied.

By five in the morning, he was starting to feel it catching up to him. He slumped down on the bed. It sure wasn’t as firm or comfortable as Holland’s had been. The pillows were too soft and the duvet too scratchy.

He’d just laid his head back, sighing miserably, when the piercing sound of the phone ringing jolted through the room.

Holly jerked awake, looking around frantically, while Jackson reached for it so hurriedly, he nearly knocked the receiver off the nightstand.

“Hello?”

“Hello. This is the front desk. I’ve got a call for Mr. Healy?”

“Yeah,” Jackson sputtered, “yeah, put him through.”

There were a few seconds of silence, and then he heard Holland’s voice saying, “Healy? Healy you there.”

“Yeah, March. I’m here.”

“Oh, thank god. I figured that front desk was gonna keep dicking me around.”

There was a casualness to his tone that immediately set Jackson at ease. “We’re in room two-seventeen. So, you know when you get here.”

“Uh, well, I’m not coming there quite yet.”

“What the fuck?”

“What?” Holly echoed. “What’s going on?”

He held up a finger, asking for her patience (and silence, since he didn’t really want Holland knowing he’d brought his daughter along). Plus, he could cover the fury for the both of them.

“I’m here, Jack. I’m at the factory where they’re meeting with this mystery guy. I need to stick around and see who it is.”

“Well tell me where you are. I’ll meet you there.”

“Yeah,” Holland agreed eagerly. “That’s what I was hoping.” He rattled off a vague description of some abandoned factory a few miles out of town.

Jackson grabbed the hotel stationary and pen and jotted everything down.

“You be careful,” he cautioned Holland. “Stay out of sight until I’m there.”

Holland scoffed. “I’m fine, Healy. These guys are idiots. They don’t have any idea that I’m he–”

His voice cut off suddenly, and with a sharp noise and a breathy gasp. Above that, Jackson thought he could hear voices…

“March? March are you there? Holland, dammit say something!”

There was no response, just more of those background voices. It sounded like they were arguing.

The line went dead.

He looked up at Holly.

She was staring at him in equal amounts of shock and rage.

“They get him?” she asked after a moment. Her tone had dropped to something low and dangerous.

“Yeah,” he had to acknowledge. “Yeah, I think they did. Someone hung up the phone.”

Holly’s mouth twisted into a scowl. “We gonna go get him back?”

Jackson swallowed hard. He had to believe that Holland was okay. And he had to make sure Holly believed it as well.

“Damn straight we are.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  _Now_

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Drawing in a breath and holding it, Jackson stepped out from behind the wall and flicked the flashlight beam on at the same time.

“Hey!”

“What the hell?”

“That’s bright.”

Three voices sounded in sudden chaos, and three blinking faces stared at Jackson – well, Jackson and his gun – with confusion.

“Who the hell?”

Jackson almost… _almost_ let himself get distracted. First when he finally got a look at Holland, who was tied with some kind of rope or twine to a rolling office chair. Second, when he realized he recognized both the faces of Holland’s captors.

“Geoffrey?” He spat out. “Carlos?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Carlos… or rather, Tony, blurted. Gone was Carlos’ heavy Hispanic accent. Healy would’ve pegged Tony as coming from the South Bronx.

“Hey,” Second guy, who was actually Geoffrey the valet, snapped his fingers a few times. “It’s him. The partner!” The posh, upper crust affectation had also disappeared from his voice.

Meanwhile, Holland started to grin. “Healy! It’s you, Healy!”

And hell, he looked wasted! Even across the room in the crap lighting Jackson could see that his eyes were bloodshot and all pupil.

“Back the fuck away from him,” Healy instructed. He leveled the Walther more directly at Geoffrey.

Both men stepped back from Holland.

Feeling like he had maybe a few seconds of breathing room, Jackson took better stock of the situation. Neither of the thieves-cum-kidnappers held weapons, although he spotted March’s Smith and Wesson over on an upturned garbage can a few feet away.

He edged further into the large room – some kind of warehouse space from the few remaining, half-collapsed shelves – and slowly stepped over to grab the other weapon.

“March,” he barked out. “They got any other guns?”

“Healy. Healy, Healy, Healy.”  Holland stuck out his tongue and made a sputtering sound with his mouth. “Your name sounds funny when I say it over and over.”

Jesus Christ. Holland was going to be no help.

“You two,” he instructed. “Step away from each other. And then down on your knees.”

They shuffled awkwardly, first bumping into each other before finally separating. Tony went down to his knees, but not-Geoffrey sat down on his butt like he wasn’t quite sure what to do.

Master fucking criminals…

He needed to get better control of them and the situation, so he could get the cops, and get Holland out of there and make sure Holly was okay.

“Okay, you,” he gestured to not-Geoffrey. “Start talking. What the fuck is going on here.”

Because clearly this was about more than some stolen goods. Truth serums? Mysterious benefactor? He was starting to wonder if Toxikon Chemical had something to do with this after all.

Not-Geoffrey looked over at Tony, who just shrugged.

“C’mon,” Jackson snapped. “Start talkin’.”

“Uh, well, it was all Joe’s idea,” not-Geoffrey began.

“Yeah,” Tony echoed. “Joe was the one who thought this whole scheme up. What, four years ago, Mike?”

Not-Geoffrey was apparently called Mike. “Yeah,” he nodded. “About four years ago.”

“And who the fuck is Joe?”

Again, Mike and Tony exchanged a silent, speaking look.

“It’s Franz!” Holland blurted, and then started giggling like a loon.

What… the… fuck…

“Franz? Mrs. Anzini’s dead husband?”

Caught out, Mike and Tony could only nod.

Jackson so badly wanted to beat his head against something. “Okay, let’s start over from the beginning. You guys are working with Franz. But he’s really Joe.”

Mike nodded again.

“And you’re not Geoffrey the butler, and he ain’t Carlos the groundskeeper.”

Another nod, this one a bit confused, like he wasn’t sure if he should confirm that.

“So, Maryanne. That’s Conchita right?”

The next acknowledging head bob was done with more reluctance.

“What about Merda, the cook?”

Tony shook his head. “Nah, she was just a nice lady.”

Jesus.

He thought about it for a few minutes, starting to put the puzzle together.

“So, tell me if I got this right. A couple of years ago, you two and this Maryanne and Joe, come up with this scheme to fleece old Mrs. Anzini.”

When neither man acknowledged, Jackson lifted the Walther again. “Am I right?” He punctuated each word with a slight jerk of the gun.

The nods that came in response were excessive, painful looking.

“You guys have been workin’ this con for four damn years?” He let out a low whistle. “So, Franz dying. How’d you guys swing that? Mrs. Anzini said she found the body herself.”

“I’ll tell you how.”

Shit.

The voice came from somewhere _behind_ Jackson.

Looks like Joe had finally arrived.

“Drop the gun, spread your arms and turn around slow.”

When Jackson didn’t immediately respond, Joe gave another warning. “There’s a nine-mil Beretta 92 aimed right at your spine.” The sound of a handgun safety being slipped followed that pronouncement.

Hoping like hell that he wouldn’t turn around to see Holly in the grip of some asshole with a gun, Jackson did as he was told. He crouched a moment to let the Walther drop in a clatter, then spread both his hands out to his sides. He spun slowly.

Joe didn’t look much like the pictures Mrs. Anzini had on her mantle of ‘Franz’, but he was still recognizable. And much to Jackson’s profound relief, there was no sign of Holly anywhere when he finished his turn.

“So, you’re Franz? I mean, Joe?”

“And you’re Mr. Healy. Detective and partner to Holland March.” He waved his gunless hand vaguely in the direction of Holland’s chair. “Mr. March has been a rather delightful guest, hasn’t he boys.” Joe looked past him, and then his eyes rolled dramatically.

“Get up, you idiots,” he ordered sharply.

Joe was clearly the mastermind of this operation.

Jackson gave a smarmy half-smirk. “Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking. For all intents and purpose, Franz Anzini _is_ dead. He has a death certificate. A funeral was held. It was lovely; I watched it from a restaurant across the street.”

He needed to keep this guy talking, to give Holly a chance to get away. He’d already started to get the feeling that this guy was the bragging, talky type.

“So, how’d you pull that off?”

Joe smiled wide, and it was a creepy expression. “What, no clever guesses?”

Jackson pursed his lips, pretending to ponder that for a few minutes. “I’m guessing the bit about you being a chemist wasn’t too far from the truth.”

That creepy smile grew wider. “Oh, you’re clever, Mr. Healy. Quite clever. You’re correct. I do have a background in chemistry as well as pharmaceutical research.” He nodded in Holland’s direction again. “Your partner is enjoying one of my inventions, actually. It’s one my employers chose not to explore, as it’s not very cost-effective, but I like to keep a dose or two on hand.”

“Some kind of truth drug?” Jackson asked, just to rile him up.

Joe blew out an aggrieved sigh. “And now you’re disappointing me. You must know that there’s no such thing as a truth serum. There are, however, several chemical and botanical compounds that can influence certain parts of the brain to lower inhibitions.”

“So,” Jackson said, “I’m guessing you also know of some chemical or botanical compound that can slow your heartbeat? Maybe make you seem dead?”

“See!” Joe pointed both the gun and his empty hand at Jackson. “You do get it. That’s exactly what I did. Doesn’t quite stop the heart, but to the layman or the uneducated, it would certainly closely simulate death.” He mock-sighed. “Poor dear Angela. On top of having terrible eyesight, she also suffered from numbness in her extremities. It wasn’t too difficult to convince her that dearly beloved Franz had died.”

“And the ambulance?”

Joe waggled a finger. “Come on now, Mr. Healy, I’m sure you know the answer to that one.”

He’d put enough of it together. Although, Joe seemed eager for him to answer. “Fake ambulance. Mike over there –“ he jerked a thumb in the direction of Joe’s cohorts –“never actually called it in. The crash afterward was staged.”

“Oh yes, you are good,” Joe said, clapping his empty hand against the back of his gun hand. “Now, the beauty of this plan was that no one was going to get hurt.”

Jackson decided to refrain from mentioning the mental anguish Angela had been put through.

“The bodies in the ambulance were cadavers, in case you were wondering.”

He hadn’t been, but he was too busy worrying about the point Joe was hinting towards.

“And, I’ll be honest. I’d hoped to keep it that way, but you and your partner are making this much more difficult.”

“Glad to be of service.”

Joe didn’t look impressed. “Yes, well. I’m afraid that I might have to rethink my original plan.”

“Woah!” That might’ve come from Mike? “You said no killing. That was the whole point of the long con!”

Joe waved his hands a little wildly, indicating Jackson. “Yeah, it _was_ the point. Until our four years into this nearly got ruined by these two assholes.”

“Look, Joe –”

“No, you look, Mike. You and Tony are in this just as much as I am. And we’re not letting this fall apart now.” He swiveled the gun off Jackson, aiming past him. “Got it?”

There wasn’t a verbal response, but Jackson assumed that Mike or Tony must’ve nodded.

“Good,” Joe said, and the smile returned but it was brittle and sharp-edged. “Good. Now, let’s get back to you.” He focused on Jackson once again. “You and your partner are going to need to experience a little accident. I’m thinking another fire.”

He stared thoughtfully for a long moment, scratching at his chin. “But how to make it look accidental?”

Jackson sure as hell wasn’t going to make any suggestions.

“Of course, I could just shoot you both now.” He shrugged.

“Don’t think that’ll link back to you? We’re working a case for Mrs. Anzini. Three of her employees suddenly disappear, then the detectives trying to track down her stolen property go missing?”

Joe frowned. “You make a valid point.” He scratched at his chin again with the butt of the gun. “But, I think I can come up with a way to cover it up. Abandoned warehouse, unexpected gunfire? You guys interrupted a robbery maybe?” He shrugged again. “I can make it work. Mike, wheel the other guy over here.”

Shit.

There were footsteps and the squeal of seized wheels and then Holland was rolled into view. Jackson took a moment to study him. His head was lolling, and a line of drool trailed down his chin. But he was breathing, and alive, and Jackson was going to do anything he needed to make sure he stayed that way.

But how?

“Untie him,” he ordered Jackson.

Well, that was a step in the right direction. He knelt down next to the chair and turned it so that Holland’s back, and the knots of the ropes, were facing him. “Got a knife?” he asked, not willing to volunteer that he had one in a sheath around his ankle. He was really going to have to start carrying that ankle holster with a second gun, like Holland had dreamed.

“Sure, fine, whatever,” Joe allowed.

Tony handed over a small swiss army knife. The blade was no more than three inches. Still, he used it to cut the ropes that were tied inexpertly around Holland’s wrists and his waist. Once he was loose, Holland slid bonelessly out of the chair. Jackson barely managed to catch him before he slumped to the floor. He was gentle as he let Holland’s head down to rest on the cement.

“Okay,” Joe said, gesturing with the gun. “Come on. Get up.”

He was out of time.

Slowly, Jackson got to his feet. One of Holland’s arms flopped against his ankle and he let it rest there.

He had one last gamble.

Joe levered the gun, aiming it at his chest.

Jackson took a deep, steadying breath.

“Goodbye, Mr. Healy.”

It was like time stood still.

Joe’s hand began to tremble slightly, and his finger started to tighten on the trigger…

Jackson shifted his weight to one foot…

Holland was going to walk away from this, he told himself, readying to charge the crazy man with the gun.

No matter what, Holland was walking away and going home to Holly.

“Freeze! Police!”

The pop of small arms fire sounded terribly loud even in the cavernous warehouse space.

Jackson flinched, waiting for the feeling of pain that was sure to follow.

Around him, things erupted into chaos as a dozen police officers in heavy gear rushed into the space. Mike and Tony flew to the floor, dropping immediately.

Joe let the gun fall from his hands even as he raised his arms in surrender.

Still, Jackson waited.

“Dad!”

It wasn’t until he heard Holly’s voice that Jackson realized the pain had never come.

Somehow, Joe had _missed_.

Everything rushed back into focus and Jackson saw Holly pushing her way through several of the officers that were now securing the scene, paramedics on their heels.

“He’s fine!” Jackson hurried to reassure her. “He’s just unconscious.” He knelt back down next to Holland’s side and caught up Holly in his arms as she ran toward him. “He’s okay, kiddo. He’s okay.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“So, then what happened?”

“I’ll let her tell it,” Jackson replied. He was slouched in an uncomfortable plastic chair with his feet propped up on Holland’s hospital bed.

Holly sat cross-legged on the bed near Holland’s feet. “Well, when Mr. Healy went into the room and made me stay behind, –” she stuck out her tongue at him, despite Holland’s approving nod “– that’s when I decided to go find a payphone,” she explained. “And when I was sneaking outside, I saw that other car pull up. The one that creepy Joe was driving. So, I knew I had to get the cops there right away.”

“Right, but I didn’t know that she was calling in the cavalry,” Jackson added. “So, I’d gotten the drop on Mike and Tony and there I was, shocked as hell to realize they were Carlos and Geoffrey.”

Holland shook his head, grinning kind of wildly. “That was so nuts!"

“I should’ve just hit ‘em both on the head with the butt of my gun and gotten you the fuck out of there.”

In the two days that Holland had spent in the hospital in a medically induced coma (to make the ‘come down’ from the partially unidentifiable cocktail of drugs less of a stress to his system) Jackson had had a lot of time to think about all the things he should’ve done differently.

The Doctors had only eased Holland into consciousness a little over two hours ago, and Jackson and Holly had pretty much stormed their way into his room the moment they were allowed.

Holland’s memory was fuzzy thanks to being doped to the gills, so he couldn’t recollect very much about the entire incident after Mike and Tony had found him.

They were trying to fill him in, albeit a bit out of order (and a bit edited, for Holly’s sake).

“Yeah, but then we wouldn’t have known about Franz,” Holland argued. “And, c’mon. That ended up being a pretty fucking huge surprise!”

“Yeah it did,” Jackson had to agree.

Mrs. Anzini had thought so as well. Once he’d finished with the police at the factory and confirmed that Holland was going to be all right, Jackson had reached out to their employer. She’d taken the news of Franz’s fake death surprisingly well, considering.

Though, she’d been furious in learning that it wasn’t just _one_ of her staff that had been trying to steal from her, but three. After Joe, Mike and Tony had been arrested, Joe had been quick enough to give up Maryanne as well. He also disclosed the location of many of the stolen goods (that hadn’t already been sold or fenced).

Angela Anzini nee Fitzgerald (which was due to become a permanent change back to her maiden name) had also been devastated to learn about Holland being drugged and Jackson nearly being shot. She promised them a ‘substantial bonus’ and also offered to pay for their extended stay in Petaluma.

Since there was no way that Jackson was going to take Holly away from her convalescing dad, he wasn’t too proud to take her up on that. He’d rebooked them two rooms at a swank hotel closer to the hospital, and had spent a couple of hours making calls to ensure things got taken care of back home: excusing Holly from school, getting the mail, feeding his fish…

“Helluva case,” Holland said, chuffing laughter after Holly finished recounting a few more details.

“Definitely,” Jackson agreed with a low chuckle.

“Definitely,” Holly parroted, scraping up the last of a pudding cup with a plastic spoon.

“Score one for the Nice Guys.”

A pleasant silence fell over the room. Jackson considered closing his eyes for a few minutes…

“So, Dad,” Holly asked, sounding innocent as ever. “Do you remember anything from your time on those scary drugs? Maybe some of the things you’d been talking about.”

Holland canted his head to the side as he thought about it.

Jackson, meanwhile, tried to glare a hole in Holly’s pudding cup. He knew _exactly_ why she was asking.

“Hmmm, I remember a few bits and pieces. There was something about…cereal?” He frowned, looking to Holland for confirmation.

“Yeah, you kinda got caught up on the cereal thing.”

Holland chewed at his lower lip a moment. “Was I singing? I vaguely recall singing.”

“Oh yeah,” Holly nodded. “Lots of singing. You wouldn’t shut up.”

Again, Holland’s whole face screwed up in thought, as if he could force the memories to the front of his mind. “Uh, was there something about a bed?” He looked right at Jackson. “Why do I remember talking about you and a bed?”

It was like he realized how that might sound the very moment after he said it, and Holland’s cheeks went bright red.

Holly chose that moment to hop up off the bed. “I’m going to go get some more pudding cups.” She fixed a very pointed, knowing stare on her dad that slowly transferred its way over to Jackson. “I’ll be back no sooner than thirty minutes from now.”

And with that oh-so subtle statement, she practically flounced from the room, closing the door carefully behind her.

Holland was quiet for a long moment and then he let out a weary sigh and shook his head. “Where did I go wrong with her?”

Despite himself, and the dozens of butterflies making their new home in his stomach, it still made Jackson laugh. “I gotta say, I think you did everything right.”

More silence fell, but this felt less nervous… more charged…

“So, uh. The bed thing?” Holland swallowed hard, like he was steeling himself. “Why am I remembering something about you and my bed?”

Jackson could’ve lied to him; told him that he was probably just remembering the conversation they’d had about him crashing in Holland’s bed during the days. But he couldn’t bring himself to treat his partner, hell, his best friend that way.

“It was something that Tony asked you. He wanted to know where I was. You told him that I was in your bed.” He couldn’t quite meet Holland’s eyes when he added, “You said you liked it when you slept in there after I did.”

Though Holland’s cheeks were still beet red, his smile went kind of soft. “Okay, yeah. Maybe I do.”

He could end things there. But something about Holland’s open expression urged him to continue. “You also said that you’d like it if I was in there with you.”

“Shit, I said that?”

“Yeah.”

“You heard all that, huh?”

“Yep,” Jackson confirmed. “So did Holly.”

Holland groaned then and slid down further into the flat hospital pillows. “Oh god. She’s never going to let me hear the end of it, is she?”

“Nope.”

“So, uh, what the fuck do we do about it?” He looked somewhere between wary and hopeful both.

Jackson dropped his feet off Holland’s bed, and sat up straighter. He might’ve let his expression go a little flinty.

The pink faded from Holland’s cheeks, chased away by paling. “Uh hey, Healy. Uh, Jack.”

When Jackson stood up and stepped next to the bed, Holland started full on babbling. “Look, Jack, I was out of my gourd, yanno? You can’t trust what a guy says when he’s shitfaced, right?”

Jackson leaned closer and reached out to grab the collar of Holland’s hospital gown, closing it in his fist.

Holland’s eyes squeezed shut. “Please don’t break my arm,” he squeaked.

It was the easiest thing in the world to kiss him then. It was soft, tender and felt like coming home.

Holland’s eyes flew open. “Oh!” he blurted once Jackson drew back a few centimeters. “Oh, so you uh…”

“Yeah,” Jackson agreed. “I like your bed too. And I’d like it even more with you in it.”

An amazing, pleased, relieved and slightly dirty smile pushed into Holland’s cheeks. “I think that can be arranged.” He surged forward to catch Jackson’s mouth in a wetter, fiercer, kiss – one that involved tongue.

“Hey March?” Jackson said against his lips.

“Yeah, Jack?” The response nearly got lost between more lush, heady kisses.

“I didn’t break your arm. It was a spiral fracture…”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from a song called 'Clumsy' by Our Lady Peace. I don't know why, but it just seems to suit Jackson and Holland for some reason.
> 
> Thanks to my beta, J - all remaining mistakes are my own (and I'm open to feedback) because I'm slow and frustrating to beta for... (Sorry J!)


End file.
